


Maintenance

by Ylevihs



Series: How Not to Fall [23]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Herald POV, Implied past self harm, M/M, Retribution Spoilers, descriptions of injuries and wounds, implied thoughts of suicide, improper medical care, kind of sort of self surgery, ortega POV, platonic chargestep, puppet use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 12:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20096986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ylevihs/pseuds/Ylevihs
Summary: Richard begins patching himself up.





	Maintenance

“Shut up,” Ortega repeated. His grip on the cape was tight enough to make his fingers hurt. One of Richard’s armored hands came up and placed itself on his forearm again, not moving. Not pressing. Just resting there. 

“None of what happened to me was your fault,” Richard shifted on the ground—couldn’t even stay still when he was giving up. His voice sounded calmer. No, not calmer. More resigned. The fight had even gone out of his voice. “It’s not your job to save--,” 

“Do you _want_ me to punch you again?” it was meant to be threat. It came out as tired as he felt on his worst days. 

“Do you want me to answer that?” 

A momentary stalemate. It cut deeper than Ortega wanted to admit that Richard sounded completely serious. His face stayed stoic. God, that was fucked up. Richard did want to get hit again and was goading him into doing it. A little more adrenaline slipped away, the pain in his neck blooming and helping keep his anger simmering. Helping keep the nauseating dread rising from his stomach at bay. For the moment at least. 

“I’m not going to help you kill yourself. And I know Daniel isn’t going to either. You’re not gonna be able to use either of us for that,” that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Why, after so many years of hiding as Sidestep, Richard was finally telling the truth about himself? Because he had hoped it would get him killed. Or give him enough motivation to kill himself. And because that didn’t work, he’d gone back to lying. To try and get somebody somewhere to get mad enough at him to kill him for it. His grip loosened more than a fraction. “We aren’t weapons. And you can’t stop us from trying to save you,” The release of tension creaked in his knuckles. Errant twinges of electricity in his musculature. 

Richard seemed to take a moment to mull that over before spitting again. Still bloody.

“Argent would have kept punching,” he sneered, teeth stained red. The same color as his stupid stuck cape. Ortega let the flare up of anger inside of him die down before responding. He could hear it leaving his own voice as well, leaking out of him, leaving in its wake the back of the throat burn of ozone and a hollow feeling in his teeth. He was getting too old for this kind of shit. 

“I’d say go pick a fight with her, but we both know it wouldn’t be enough. You don’t just want to die,” and the realization stuck in Ricardo’s throat, trying to strangle him from the inside out. Richard’s expression was changing; thin lines of fear around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. “You want someone to kill you because you deserve it. To die for a reason,” the back half of the realization hit. “You didn’t care if Danny and I figured anything out about your plans, did you? You wanted us to figure out your plans. To come kick your ass? Well congrats, jackass. You got your wish,” 

And, Ortega hoped, wanted at least one of them to stop him. To knock some sense into him. To show up and stop him. 

Silence. As much as a silence as there could be with police sirens and car alarms blaring around them and oh shit. This probably wasn’t the best time or place for this. Ortega couldn’t stop himself. He’d struck pay dirt and he could see it in every errant twitch and shift. 

“You keep doing shit to make people mad at you because you think you—this is all some kind of self harm, isn’t it? Trying to push Danny and me away? Are you just gonna keep pushing until one of us snaps?”

Another long break. “Everyone’s got a limit Ricardo,”

“Yeah?” Ortega held Richard’s gaze long and steady. “I may be pissed, but you haven’t come close to hitting mine yet,”

“Yet,” he repeated. Smart-ass. And much quieter, “I’m afraid of hitting mine,” which made Ortega’s stomach roll. There was more than one type of limit, after all. Then Richard stiffened under him; the plates of the armor giving away the tension of the body inside it.

“Does Dr. Finch know you--,” 

“Miss Ochoa asked that I fly her back to her office,” Daniel’s voice from behind them both. Again with that tone that Ortega couldn’t begin to place. There was anger, sure. But something else that was showing up plain as day on Richard’s face, which folded in itself like a crumpled piece of paper. And the look he gave to Ortega was misery distilled. “The police are still down there. Waiting,” Ortega looked over his shoulder in time to see Daniel floating closer, arms across his chest, watching them. 

Ortega wavered a moment. Then he took his hands away from Richard’s shoulders. “Can you run?”

Richard blinked up at him, surprise shifting into something grim. “Probably not,” and instead of reaching for his helmet, Richard’s hand pressed against the hip Ortega had kicked. There was no visible damage to the armor, but the way he shifted and winced—and the way his leg didn’t exactly shift with the rest of his body. Probably dislocated. “Actually that’s a ‘no’,” Richard spat blood again, this time from. Biting his lip? Definitely dislocated.

Now that the adrenaline and fury were simmering down to a true mellow in the back of his brain, Ortega replayed as much of the fight in his head as he could. He came to a few conclusions rather quickly. Even before Richard had turned into a punching bag, he’d been holding back. Wanting to play around instead of actually damaging his friend. He most likely had broken a rib or two, if the labored breathing was anything to go by. 

“And a concussion,” it was a nervous sound. Daniel had floated closer and had touched down just behind Ortega. 

“That’s what you get for wearing a cape like some Sunday morning cartoon,” it was his own voice, Ortega knew, but it sounded miles away. If Richard’s cape hadn’t gotten stuck. If he’d decided not to play games—if the sight of Daniel hadn’t neutered him immediately. 

“Hey, the cape brings the whole look together,” a weak joke. Sidestep had never had a problem keeping up with Charge. The thought that Mad Dog might actually outpace him settled ugly in Ortega’s shoulders. 

“If you two are done? We’ve got to get out of here,” there was no lightness in Daniel’s voice. He took a step towards Richard, who put his hand out. 

“I can,” he shifted, biting back a tight noise, and placed his left hand against the tire. Ortega couldn’t stop himself from jerking backwards. Not enough to be called a swarm, but enough to send the memory of pain careening up his arm, the nanovores spilled out of their place on his arm. It was like a bad special effect, watching the rubber disintegrate. Unwelcome memories of what they could do to flesh flickered in and out of focus. Richard pulled them back into his armor before they reached the fabric of his cape. 

“Richard,” 

“Ricardo,”

He didn’t want to ask, he didn’t actually want to know, it would only make things worse if he got the answer he didn’t want. “I assume those things can eat through mods?” A moment of consideration.

“I’ll never know,” Richard adjusted himself on the ground and wheezed, reaching for his helmet. It would have to be good enough. The cracked helmet slid over his face and it was clear any conversation was over. 

“Could you,” Daniel edged forward again, the placement of his body between Richard and Ortega was subtle. Not subtle enough, and Ortega couldn’t tell if it was a protective gesture towards Richard or a threatening one to Mad Dog. “Handle the cops? I can fly him out of here,” 

“Yeah, sure,” it wouldn’t be too hard to put a little spin on the fight. Mad Dog had taken a beating and then ran. Where was Herald? Pursuing, obviously. “Where are you gonna take him?” Ortega rose up, back and rib cage protesting the entire time. His head was already starting to pound. Richard might not have been the only one with a more than minor concussion. 

“His base,” there was no elaboration. They both knew that he knew where it was; after Richard had come clean it had been surprisingly easy to track down. Maybe because he hadn’t been trying to hide it anymore. Another invitation for somebody, somewhere, to kick his teeth in. 

Still on the ground, Richard tried to adjust himself into a position that would make it somewhat easier for Daniel to pick him up. The left knee rose up but the right leg just wouldn’t cooperate. The voice modulator was still working in his helmet; it warped whatever sound actually left his lungs into something primal and dire. It was worse when Daniel lifted him. Quiet, but the quiet of a wounded animal. His breathing was hard and sounded like it was catching. Shit. Hopefully that wasn’t a lung. Some of the anger visibly left Daniel’s face. Back-burnered. There would be plenty of time to be angry when Richard wasn’t struggling not to tremble in his arms.

“I’ll meet you there as soon as I can,” because this wasn’t over by a long shot, concussions or collapsed lungs notwithstanding and shit, it wasn’t like they could take him to a hospital was it? 

Daniel nodded once and lifted off smoothly, arms tight around the armor. 

-

So.

This sucked. 

He had to be careful to stay low enough to be covered by the higher buildings, high enough not to grab too much attention from the street. And the man in his arms was apparently struggling not to breathe too loudly. The modulator in Mad Dog’s helmet still made his stomach turn and chest tighten. He had muttered out a ‘sorry’ as soon as they had left the parking garage. Not sorry for being an asshole or sorry for lying, but sorry for the sound of his wheezing being warped by the speakers. Because he knew that the sound might upset him. 

Daniel cornered low and tighter than he should have around a building and felt Richard brace in his hold. Quicker breathing. Shit. He needed to go a hospital. And if not that at least an actual doctor. Daniel had been trying to think of if there was anyone on the Ranger’s staff who might be able to help, but Richard had reached out and shut those thoughts down. No hospitals. No doctors. He sped up a little and the increase drag pulled another whimper out and. 

“Hey,” strained and still quiet. The growl of the modulator crept down his spine and needled into vertebrae. He grit his teeth hard against the sensation. It was fine. It was just Richard and even if it wasn’t, Mad Dog wasn’t in any shape to hurt him now. Daniel glanced down and could see Richard’s eyes screwed shut behind the cracked face plate. “Don’t want to,” a brief pause as Daniel had to dip a little to keep with the air current. A quick and bit back groan of discomfort. “Freak you out, but I have to,” a longer break that had nothing to do with pain. “I’m gonna pass out for a little bit and get Mitzi,” 

Daniel did the midair equivalent of a stagger, which had Richard wincing again. Oh. Okay. That was. Daniel was acutely aware that while he knew of Mitzi, he didn’t really know anything about her. She was, apparently, Richard’s way of interacting with the day to day criminal underground. Richard had hinted, in the halting, anxious way that he had, that there was something tasteless about the whole affair. Something that he wasn’t proud of about it. They weren’t sleeping together, Daniel was certain of that much. But the way Richard had talked about her. Something was off. 

He had been more than a little drunk the night he had said he was ‘using’ her, but had refused to elaborate. Daniel had once asked if Mitzi had a choice in helping Richard. There hadn’t been an answer to that. 

“What do you mean ‘get her’?” a long enough pause that Daniel was sure for a second that Richard had already.

“You remember I told you,” a flinch, “That I was the one who took over Argent?” in order to break in to Ranger’s Headquarters and the Vault inside. He remembered. Richard claimed he had slipped into her head and manipulated her body. 

“You’re doing that to some poor woman?” Daniel took another corner, heading towards one of the more run down areas of town. Places that still hadn’t managed to entirely recover themselves. Not enough money or interest or time or people. Mostly money. 

“Not,” a muffled gasp with the turn, “Not exactly the same, I’ll,” Daniel felt the arm slung over his shoulders tense. “I’ll explain more when I’m notbleedingoutsomuch,” and then Richard went to dead weight in his arms. Daniel had to dip a little to keep from losing his grip. 

“When—wait what?” but the arm that had been slung over his back was limp now. The helmeted head lolled forward, the chin piece resting against the chest plate. Daniel found himself staring for a moment at the damage before gripping Richard closer and shaking his head. He’d arrived back from dropping Mia off with enough time to hear Ortega reading Richard the riot act. To hear how desperate Ricardo was and how resigned Richard sounded. 

Was he right? That Richard had done such a poor job of keeping his plans secret because he was hoping they’d hurt him for it? Hoping that by lying over and over again it was going to make him leave? Did Richie really think it was going to be that easy to get rid of them? 

Without Richard making a conscious effort to keep it quiet, his breathing was strained, tilting upwards with each inhale. And. Okay. Shit, that actually sounded pretty bad. Another turn and a few buildings down the street. It was a neighborhood largely abandoned by anyone who could make it out. The asphalt of the road was in bad shape, weeds poking through the cracks in the sidewalk. Graffiti from various sources with various meanings covered the walls up to head height. A few more ambitious taggers had climbed fire escapes and leaned out to leave their marks. Most of the buildings were empty, windowless and austere, including the one Richard had told him he’d refurbished to serve as his base. Hideout. Daniel had teased him one night and called it a lair. 

There was woman standing outside of one. A presence so jarringly out of place that it could only be Mitzi. A young Hispanic woman with perfectly coiffed, bleached bottle-blonde hair and expensive clothing. Heels. A lot of cleavage. And when she turned to look up at him, a set of keys looped around her forefingers. She gave him an upward nod and then pressed on the door behind her, sending the metal scraping open. 

“Hey,” she was holding it open for him with a pristinely manicured hand. And looking at him like he was carrying a bomb. “I’ve laid out a tarp,” she continued as he ducked into the doorway. “Just by the…you’ll see it,” 

He did. Behind some of the larger empty shipping containers, a small area had been set up. What looked like studio lights glared down on a blue sheet of plastic. Daniel sorted through his own thoughts until he found one that didn’t feel barbed.

“You showed up quick,”

“I was already here,” she turned and locked the door with a neat little ‘snick’. The keys jangled into her purse. She glanced up at him, down at Richard’s body, down at the floor. “Just. Uh. Right over here,” she nodded to the tarp. There was a folding table set up next to it, equally covered by plastic. Laid out on it were standard first aid supplies. Gauze and bandages. Bottles of peroxide and iodine. And some very non-standard looking equipment. Daniel thought he recognized one from his latest stay in the hospital. Behind them, there were clear bags of fluid, and Daniel absolutely recognized the IV pole. 

“So you’re?” Daniel straightened a bit, Richard’s legs dangling bonelessly over his arm. The woman shrugged nervously, crossing her arms and seeming to shrink in a little on herself. The stance was all Richard. She was already shorter than him. Probably shorter than Argent. 

“I’m in here. The woman’s name is…was Mitzi,” and she. Richard? Strode over to the tarp and knelt down on the floor, slipping off her—his—their? Heels. Setting the purse to one side. “I promise I’ll go more into…uh…it later but first,” he patted the tarp. 

Daniel fumbled for a moment before muttering out a soft “Sure,” and setting Richard’s body down as gingerly as possibly. He winced in sympathy as Richard unfolded limply on the ground. Richard, wearing Mitzi’s face, did not. 

“I might need your help,” he was already on the tarp with his own body, quick blue-lacquered nails finding the hidden catches and buckles that kept the armor together. The movements were precise and. Daniel fought back a slight cringe, rougher than he would have been. Tugging and jerking pieces off like he was undressing a mannequin and not his own body. “Can you, uh, put these over there,” the blonde head nodded to the side of the room just beyond the folding table. There was a slightly raised platform, half hidden by old boxes and empty containers. Daniel could spy a small and neatly made cot. Richard raised up, two at a time, gauntlets and gloves. Boots and shin guards. The helmet. The neck guard. The chest piece gave him more trouble, cracking one of Mitzi’s nails as he wrapped his arms fully around his own chest and hefted. 

Before he could ask, Daniel found himself dipping down and holding Richard’s shoulders up off the tarp. He did his best to keep Richard’s head supported against his forearm. Without the helmet the swelling on his jaw was more apparent. Daniel could feel the labored breathing under his hands and it made something inside of him twist. “Thanks,” Mitzi’s voice was stronger than Richard’s, even if it was still a whisper. “Can you lift a little higher?” he asked, and Daniel slipped his arms further under Richard’s torso, propping him up against his chest. Richard, with Mitzi’s hands, made quick work of the armor around his stomach, his hips, his thighs. 

Richard’s unconscious body bucked suddenly, an automatic reaction, nearly slipping out of Daniel’s hold. The sound that came from it snaked into Daniel’s chest and dug in with fangs. He forced back the shudder that wanted to make its way into his arms. 

“I’ve got you,” he muttered, unable to stop himself, tightening his grip. He hated how much like panic his voice sounded. Richard cleared Mitzi’s throat, looking sheepishly up at him. 

“I’ll be okay,” he said gently. Cautiously. Then, “I’ve had to deal with worse. Just. Uh. Need to get the body suit off,” 

Mitzi’s hands came up to the small clasp around the neck, looking absolutely anywhere but at Daniel’s or Richard’s faces. The suit unzipped easily, peeling away to show bright red marks down Richard’s torso, the right side of his ribcage blooming especially bright. There was something wrong with the way it rose and fell, the way the skin stretched over the bones; Daniel could tell even if he didn’t know entirely what was wrong with it. Richard reached his own hips and pulled sharply on the fabric and Mitzi’s hands came away red.   
Wet. 

His stomach rolled again and that tremor of. He was not going to panic. He was not. There was something more than a little. Upsetting, not distressing, he was not distressed it was just. Richard’s battered and bloody naked body. And Richard, in Mitzi’s body, handling it like so much disappointing meat. Daniel swallowed hard and did his best to shut those thoughts off for the moment. Could Richard still see what he was thinking about?

A quick glance and. It seemed like Mitzi was entirely focused on the job at hand. 

It looked like the inner curve of the armor had sliced in towards his pelvis where Ortega had done something. Kicked him, most likely. The tear was jagged but shallow. Mitzi pulled away, darting to the table and bringing back clean swatches of fabric and a clear plastic bottle with a broad white label. Warnings were printed in tiny, neat black along the entire front. Richard unscrewed the cap and poured some onto a cloth, rubbing Mitzi’s hands clean of the blood. Then went back to stripping his body, carefully laying the body suit off to the side as soon as it was free. 

More white cloth was doused with the cleaning solution and came back red. Richard was no more gentle with cleaning his wounds than he had been undressing. Every time Mitzi’s hands made another pass over the tear at his hip or the gash in his forehead there was small flinch from Richard’s body. Daniel had to focus to keep from flinching in sympathy. 

“You,” he paused, Mitzi’s face. Richard was absolutely in there. No other person stared with quite the same apologetic yet still accusatory look. “You could be a little more gentle,” Mitzi’s face stayed blank, save for a little tremble of. Something he couldn’t identify. 

“I,” Richard finished wiping his face clean and threw the bloodied rag over by the rest. “Sure,” not an agreement. Just an acknowledgment. Sure, that was something he could do. “Flat on the ground,” he said suddenly, scooting back on Mitzi’s knees. “My hip is dislocated,” Richard explained. “I need a good angle to,” Mitzi’s arms made a complicated motion that Daniel absolutely did not follow. “Re-locate it,” he said after a moment. 

Daniel nodded a bit and leaned Richard’s torso back down flat; the broken ribs were more prominent with him laid out. “Is that--,” Mitzi cut him off.

“Could you brace the other side? I need to push against something,” 

“Sure,” the word almost got caught in his throat. Daniel landed on his knees beside Richard’s opposite hip and pressed lightly. Supporting it. Jesus. There had been worse? Well, of course but. If he hadn’t been with him, what? Would he have pushed his body against the wall to fix this?

“Ready?” not looking up at him. Richard was carefully arranging Mitzi’s hands against his thigh and hip. 

“Sure,” Daniel repeated, having no way of knowing. Richard nodded and without further preamble charged forward, shoving his body into Daniel’s hands. There was a moment of tension, resistance, air forced out of Richard’s lungs in a hard grunt. And then a sick sound and what could only be described as a crunch as Richard’s thigh bone popped back into its socket. 

Richard waited for a moment, staring at the fresh blood oozing from his wound before taking Mitzi’s hands away from his body. Daniel found he couldn’t entirely mirror the motion. He kept his hands on Richard’s other hip. One of them desperately wanted to slide over his hand. Offer some gesture of comfort. Except Richard wasn’t in there. Richard was in the young woman, sighing heavily and staring at the body.

“That’s going to hurt,” grim and resigned. Mitzi’s head shook from side to side and then Richard wiped his forehead. “I think I might have a small pneumothorax,” a nod to the broken ribs. “But nothing that won’t fix itself on its own, so long as nothing,” Richard paused, likely because he had finally noticed Daniel’s thumb stroking over his uninjured hip. The expression on Mitzi’s face was somewhere in the middle between sadness and fear. It folded before Daniel could say anything. “Anyway, if you could help get me up onto the cot? I can, uh, I can do the stitches there,”


End file.
